No Parades

This one was for a prompt called War Never Changes. Feeling a bit dark today so it seemed like a good choice.

The secretary of the army has asked me to express his deep regret that your husband, Enlisted Five Jeremy W. Jones died in Vietnam on 15 February 1968, from wound received while on combat operation when hit by hostile small arms fire.

Please accept my deepest sympathy, this confirms personal notification made by a representative of the secretary of the army.

I was three when that telegram came. I carry it in my breast pocket, close to my heart. With it I feel closer to a father I never knew. In me war skipped a generation.

Last month, 18 May 2011 0900 local time I received a visit from two Marines in dress blues. Different words, same message. With professional empathy and candor they informed me Terrence M Jones, enlisted three, died in Afghanistan on 11 May 2011 from wounds received on combat operations from hostile artillery.

I blamed the soldiers no more than the doctors twenty years prior. In the pocket with the telegram is the MRI image showing my wife’s cancer. Found too late. A year later I was a single father.

I do not know why I chose Turkey or that particular hotel. It was old and out of the way. It seemed like a quiet place where I would not be interrupted. Human interruption was not a concern but the past, as they say, has a way of catching up.

I traveled with one small handbag. At a local hardware store I added a shopping bag with a single item. Settling in was easy. Opening the suitcase on the foot of the bed I dry swallowed a Vicodin. I do not know why I turned on the TV.

Waiting for the pill to kick in I made preparations. I tied a knot I learned in boyscouts in the rope obtained on my trip to the store. Standing atop an antique chest my nose filled with the scent of archaic oil. Antique chest?

I climbed down and opened the relic. Inside were artifacts of the Ottoman Empire. Most important were a black and white photograph and a letter. The photo showed a dapper young man in uniform smiling at an older gentleman. The letter contained different words in another language but the same message. It informed Mr. Humayun his son had died from wounds received in combat with Russian troops during the First World War.

Through tears I saw faded scuff marks on the rafter I intended to use as a gallows. Victims of war are plentiful and only the combatants lack choice in their stories’ endings. I heard the president announcing our withdrawal from the hellhole that cost me my son on the television. I made a vow to be different than Mr. Humayun. I would not disgrace my son’s sacrifice.

                  I could make my loss mean something. I was on a plane home the next day. I arrived and immediately started contacting families. Together we unknown, distant casualties of war will ensure our relatives are not forgotten. In honor of my lost family I am calling my charity, Their Parade.  














#dark #politicalcommentary #shortstory #socialcommentary